


swing for the fences

by crooked



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crooked/pseuds/crooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stickball is a Brooklyn tradition, an institution, a rite of passage for every kid that grows up in the borough.</p><p>For <em>almost</em> every kid, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swing for the fences

It’s the same routine nearly every day, weather permitting (and sometimes even when it doesn’t permit): a handful of boys from all over Red Hook, most dragging their belted-together schoolbooks behind them like too-heavy kites that refuse to get off the ground, head to the same corner at Hicks and West 9th and gather. It’s a vacant lot that suits their needs perfectly, with just enough loose bricks and broken hunks of concrete to double as the bases for their epic stickball games. A big piece of plywood stashes their equipment — a broomstick, the designated “bases” (and a few spares in case), a handful of chalk fragments pilfered from classrooms, and the all-important spaldeen that one of the guys was lucky enough to find just abandoned in the gutter one day &dash and whoever is the first to arrive at the lot gets the honors of setting up the makeshift field.

Bucky has never once done it.

Steve knows it’s because of him, because Bucky slows himself considerably in order for Steve’s shorter legs (and faulty lungs) to keep up. He knows Bucky would love to set up the field, too, because of the way all the other boys clamor over themselves to get their first. Steve himself wishes he could do it, just the one time. But Bucky never complains or makes a fuss, never shows even the slightest disappointment when the boys heckle him for being the last one to arrive _again_. (It’s like they don’t even see Steve because it’s never _barnes and rogers are last_ , it’s just Bucky getting teased. Steve isn’t sure if he prefers they don’t see him or wishes they’d at least acknowledge his presence, but he’s always grateful when Bucky uses the word ‘we’ when he replies to their good-natured taunts either way.)

He sets up camp out of the way, with his back to the rough brick wall where the strike zone has been chalked in but far to the left of it, and watches the game. Only watches because his body won’t let him play, no matter how badly he wants to, no matter how many stars he wishes upon to be just like all the other boys. He’s too small, too sickly, too weak to probably even swing the stick. He’d just embarrass himself.

Not that he cares about the other boys. They can think whatever they like about him and it wouldn’t bother Steve any. He’s heard the jeering taunts, has faced down guys twice his size on a regular basis. It’s no skin off Steve’s back. It’s Bucky he cares about Steve doesn’t want to embarrass him by proxy. And he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to take it if he saw even an ounce of that same contempt he garners from the other boys in Bucky’s eyes.

But he never does. Bucky waits for him, slows down when he knows Steve needs to but is unwilling to admit it, and stops to tie his shoes when Steve really can’t push himself any further just then. Steve is always looking for it, the annoyance or the pity or the god-i-wish-this-stupid-kid-would-just-stop-taggin’-along. But the grin on Bucky’s face is always patient and easy, and he gives Steve a playful little shove and tells him _you’re wearin’ me out, Rogers, let a guy catch his breath_. Bucky takes care of Steve but never makes him feel helpless, and Steve can’t put into words just how important that distinction is. Luckily, he doesn’t have to. It seems to be enough that he can manage to wheeze out a _try keepin’ up, will ya_ because Bucky always rewards him with a laugh and an encouraging clap on the shoulder.

The stickball boys are much less forgiving. They don’t even bother pretending that Steve is included in their games, lining up and picking teams without giving him a thought. When they first stumbled across the boys, Bucky screwed up his face and balled his fists at his sides when Steve was snubbed. Steve could tell Bucky was ready to tell ‘em all what for and then storm off, but he didn’t want to ruin his fun.

“Aw, don’t be sore, Buck,” he’d said. “I still got a touch of pneumonia anyway, probably. Ma would kill me if she caught me runnin’ around out here. You play, I’ll watch.” Bucky had protested, hesitated, and finally gave in and joined the other boys. Steve took up the same spot he sits in today, and that was how it went from then on. Steve would get ignored, Bucky would get mad, and Steve would provide a valid excuse not to play so Bucky wouldn’t feel guilty about playing himself. Over a few months, they just skipped the drama altogether and Steve would force a smile in response to Bucky’s grin as they separated at the would-be ballpark - one to line up with the others, one to press his back to the brick wall.

Steve tells himself he’s content as he watches Bucky play, as he bats and runs the bases, as he takes to the outfield to catch fly balls and scoop up grounders. Tells himself he’s okay with sitting against that wall and cheering every single play Bucky makes. He tells himself he doesn’t even wanna play and stickball is stupid anyway. He tells himself he’s having the time of his life just watching Bucky having fun. He repeats it like a mantra throughout each inning so that when Bucky trots over the smile is already fixed in place.

“Great game!” he says, getting to his feet before Bucky can extend a hand to help him up. Steve brushes the dust off his trousers so his mother won’t get on his case. He’s practiced this a thousand times, now, and he’s smiling brightly at Bucky.

But something about his smile must not quite reach his eyes, must not entirely fool Bucky, because he does the same thing he always does after every game. He slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders and reaches up with his other hand to roughly ruffle his hair. “It was okay,” he says. shrugging as they start off toward home. “It really ain’t all that much fun anyway, Stevie.”

Steve knows Bucky is just humoring him and is probably bursting at the seams to talk about the grand slam he hit in the fifth or the long fly ball he ran down in left field. But he just leaves it at that and spends the walk home asking Steve about his latest sketches or if he thinks they can make it to the soda fountain for a couple of egg creams before the streetlights come on. He talks about anything but stickball so that, by the time they reach the stoop of Steve’s building, he doesn’t remember what he felt like just moments before, sitting on the sidelines and feeling like he’d be stuck there all his life. Steve’s smile is genuine when he lifts his hand and waves goodnight to Bucky, and Bucky’s grin is brighter than the setting sun.

And that moment, that goodbye on the stoop and the way it feels to see Bucky light up because he’s brought a smile to his friend’s face, is worth every moment on the sidelines and the reason Steve keeps showing up to not play stickball every day.


End file.
